


Lies Like Waterfalls

by BeeBeMe



Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, UP Deathclaws, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe
Summary: It's night-time when he stops. He doesn't recognize himself anymore, but he does recognize the bodies.The lies aren't for funsies, like Deacon would like everyone around him to believe. No, there's a real reason behind each placed word, every change of his face, every person he pushes away.
Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951108
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Please... Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020, day 6: Please...! Enjoy!

The boot presses into the back of his head and he screams into the dirt. It gets in his teeth and sticks to the roof of his mouth, gritty and still tacky from the morning dew. The rifle diggs into the space between his shoulder blades. He can hear the bastard’s laugh just beneath Barbara’s screams. 

“Thought you could run off with one of them, ey ‘brother’?” There’s a sickening crack and Barbara’s shrieks turn into sobs. He tries to get up, wrenches himself against the ground in a desperate attempt to get his knees underneath him. Hayden - the same guy he skipped rocks with when they were both young - puts what feels like all his body weight onto his skull. Something crunches in the vicinity of his nose and he chokes the next time he breathes in. Copper coats the back of his throat, cloying at the base of his tongue.

It's only when he starts to lose consciousness that Hayden lets up. Suddenly there’s enough room between the dirt and his face to suck in a lungful of air - one that’s forcibly expelled when Hayden drives his boot into his ribs. He rolls onto his side with the force of the kick, arms wrapped around his sides as he gasps for air. Panic and pain fight for real estate in his chest, heart thumping alarmingly fast. Still, he’s overcome by the urge to _move!_ They had Barbara, damn it, he needed to get up and fight-!

A gloved hand grabs the back of his thin t-shirt and hauls him up. The collar catches on his throat and he _thrashes_ but another hand grips his upper arm and slams him knees-first into the ground. The hand on his collar raises to grip his hair and wrenches his head back until his eyes meet Barbara’s. She’s shaking - shoulders shivering like she’s freezing. There’s no fire to huddle up to, no blanket to wrap her in. Only a cruel chuckle from his left, the crunch of gravel as the man behind Barbara shifts. He’s got a gun to the back of her head - he realizes with a sickening start.

“Please, please Hayden,” he talks before his old friend gets the chance. “Stop, please. She hasn’t done anything, just let her -” The butt of a gun meets the base of his skull and he topples over into the dirt once again. Barbara’s screaming his name (a name he doesn’t remember anymore) and he wants to tell her that he’s fine but his mouth won’t work with the mud on his tongue. 

“Shut the fuck up. She’s done enough jus’ by breathing. Or do you even _need_ to breathe, bitch?” Again, he’s hauled up and set on his knees. He wants to say something - to tell her it’s going to be okay, that he loves her, _anything._ The words don’t come.

“Now, since we’ve all settled down now, dontcha have something to say to our brother here, synth?” If he never hears Hayden’s voice again, it’d be too soon. The fact that it might be the last thing he ever hears settles like a stone in his gut. The words sink in and he glances up at Hayden, then back to Barbara. Something in his gaze makes her next sob hitch in her throat. Hayden must catch it because he can hear the smirk in his voice. “Fuckin’ making him fall in love with ya’. Diabolical. Gonna fuckin’ knife him durin’ the night? Gonna _replace_ him too?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” she stutters. There’s a bruise forming just under her left eye, straddling her cheekbone. It would be covered with dirt if not for the tear tracks that cut down to her chin. She looks back to him - brown eyes almost black, pupils blown wide with panic. “I’m not a synth, I swear to-”

There’s a sickening crack as the butt of a rifle slams into the back of her head. The man behind her - Lucas, fuck, was that Lucas? - only chuckles as she slumps forward with a muted groan. Blood wells up through her brown hair, almost blending in completely. But it keeps coming and coming until it’s dripping down the side of her face and along her neck. She moves - the twitch of a hand, the shudder of breath. Not dead, though that might have been better.

A choked scream tears its way from his throat. He knows he shouldn’t - moving would only piss him off - but he twists his neck until he catches a glimpse of Hayden’s face. He’s smiling. 

“Please, she hasn’t hurt anyone. She- we’re just farmers, Hayden. Leave us alone and we won’t-” That smile turns to him and he feels the words catch in his throat.

“You won’t what? Come after us with a fuckin’ pitchfork? Pelt us with tatos? Oh, no. You’ll get your brahmin to shit on us. Is that what you’re gonna do, _brother?_ ” Hayden throws his head back and laughs, the other Deathclaws soon joining in. He isn’t paying attention. His eyes have focused on Barbara’s prone form. She’s still shaking, shivering in the dirt. The puddle of blood is getting wider and wider. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

“The bitch isn’t going to tell us anything. End it, Lucas.”

The gunshot echoed off the nearby buildings, followed closely by his scream.

• • • 

It's night-time when he stops. He doesn't recognize himself anymore, but he does recognize the bodies. Barbara gets buried off by their still-smoldering home. Sure enough, there’s a flicker of silver in the mass that used to be her head. He spends the next half-hour dry-heaving and sobbing - not because of the control chip itself, like he would have only a year or so ago, but because it was _her._ He finds himself not caring, to his distant surprise. Whether she was a synth or not is irrelevant. He loved her (her smile, her laugh, her witt, her confidence, her-) and she was dead. That was all that mattered. Once there's nothing else to vomit up, no more tears to shed, what's left of the UP Deathclaws get thrown into the fire, and he watches it burn until the sun finally rises and the bones disappear. 


	2. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020 Day 9: For the Greater Good (Run!) Enjoy!

He’s gone through this before, but it doesn't hurt any less.

There’d been warning signs for weeks in advance. Dead drops disturbed before any of their people get to them, odd people being spotted around their safehouses, agents disappearing. It’s slow and measured, getting weirder and more alarming at a snail’s pace. Maybe that’s why it took them so long to catch on to it. 

In any case, it’s too late now.

It was night and the Switchboard was warm. All that high-tech machinery combined with a whole lotta people sleeping in one place made the bunkroom downright cosy. Deacon didn’t allow himself to get too comfortable as a general rule, but it wasn’t easy. The ratty blankets felt nice and the mattress wasn’t too worn down and grungy. There were enough guns in the room to blow the place sky-high. He was surrounded by some of the best agents the Railroad had ever seen. Tommy Whispers, the hardass, was snoring like a sickly Yao Guai off in the corner. 

People he didn’t - _couldn’t_ say he trusted, but still made him feel somewhat safe. 

The sudden explosion of gunfire scares him so much he’s afraid he’s going to pass out. His head hits the bunk above him - the person inhabiting said bunk already hopping down to the ground. Deacon’s hand is on his gun before he can clear the sleep from his eyes. There’s a tense moment of silence, just a second long yet it feels like an eternity, before someone screams.

_”Courser!”_

The gunfire from what sounds like the entryway starts up again - a whole lot closer than it was just a few seconds ago. The person - Beatrice? Shit, it sounded like Beatrice - tries to yell again but her voice is cut off with a gurgle. 

His body moves like it’s no longer his own, mind racing. He always knew it could - no, _would_ happen again. It didn’t make this any less terrifying, didn’t calm the rapid staccato of his heart. Outside, he schooled his expression into something manageable as he rushed past other agents who made the mistake of taking off their gear. Tommy’s by the door, already wrapped in ballistic weave and Deliverer in his hands. His mouth’s set in a hard line, but his hazel eyes are blown wide. The fact that his voice doesn't waver when he speaks is a testament to his bravery.

“We gotta get Dez, Tom, and P.A.M.-”

“I know,” Deacon’s an asshole for interrupting - another thing that Deacon knows - and he hopes that he gets the opportunity to apologise. “What about the -”

“I know.” Ah, payback’s a bitch. “I’ll deal with it, give you guys as much time as i can.” The meaning behind those words hits him like a fist to the gut.

Tommy Whispers isn’t planning on surviving this.

Without his sunglasses, Deacon can only hope that the darkness of the bunkroom hides the pain in his eyes. Probably not, because Tommy gives him a sad smile before charging into the main room, a battle cry on his lips. That’s the last time Deacon sees him alive - face outlined by brief flashes of gunfire, anger in his eyes, Deliverer cutting down synths right and left. 

It wouldn’t be enough. There were too many of them. It’s a struggle to get to the escape tunnel, let alone lead an effective charge against the hordes. Deacon’s got Tinker Tom’s arm in a death grip with one hand, his own gun in the other. A lucky shot got him in the leg, right in the meaty part of his thigh. It hurts like a bitch, but everything else will hurt a hell of a lot more if he doesn't keep moving.

Tom makes a small, scared sound as one of the gen-2’s get a little too close. Coolant erupts from the hole in it’s head as it topples over, flecking them both with blue. The far wall of the Switchboard is to their back - just a few meters to their right is the entrance to the emergency escape tunnel. Dez and Glory are giving them as much cover fire as they can, but they’re pinned down in the mouth of the tunnel as well. 

It's now or never. 

"Wait! Wh-" Tinker Tom's words are cut off as Deacon's grip on his arm tightens. Waiting a beat for the gunfire to lull, he charged out of cover - Tinker Tom sandwiched between him and the wall. Immediately, the synths redouble their fire. Bullets whiz past his ears, he can feel them pass over his skin and billow by his t-shirt. Five meters. Four. Three.

His shoulder explodes.

His entire right side erupts in pain. There’s that uncomfortable feeling of something where nothing should be. Air underneath his clavicle, in this case. He can't help but cry out, stumbling for half a second. There’s an urge to drop - to cover himself and stay put. His mind screams - stopping puts Tinker Tom in danger. The Railroad _needs_ Tom. He needs to keep _moving!_

It's only that thought that keeps him moving through the pain. He can feel blood dripping down his back and over his chest with each step. There’s too much of it, a fact that he’s painfully aware of. His head spins like a top, heart beating against his ribs. This hurts, but losing Tom or any of the others will hurt more. He redoubles his grip on Tom and shoves them both forward and into the mouth of the escape tunnel.

Glory’s yelling, but it sounds so far off. He groans - at least, he _thinks_ he was the one to groan. Doctor Carrington’s dumb, stupid face swims in and out of focus, an uncharacteristic amount of concern in his expression. Deacon smiles because it’s the polite thing to do, and also because it’ll piss him off. It doesn't work. Carrington ignores him, says something, looks to Dez, Glory yells.

They’re wasting time, as always.

It takes every ounce of Deacon’s remaining strength to grab onto Doctor Carrington’s arm, even more to shake it enough to get his attention. Finally, his eyes meet the doctor’s own.

“Run. I’m dead weight. You have to go.”

If they were in any other situation, the unbridled rage on Carrington’s face might have been funny. As it is, it’s only worrying. They need to go. There isn’t time to be angry or sentimental or _stupid._ If there’s a courser on their ass, they can’t waste these precious seconds. The thought of the Railroad ending here, because of him, scares him more than death itself.

“Please, Carrington- Stanley, you have to go. Please…” The world gives one last stuttering swirl, the darkness at the corner of his eyes rising like the tide, and the last thing he feels is someone picking him up and the sting of a stimpak before there’s nothing more.


End file.
